CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(l\/lonograplis) 


ICMH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


[g] 


Canadian  Instituta  for  tlittorical  Microraproductiona  /  Inatitut  Canadian  da  microraproductiona  historiquaa 


©1996 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  technique  et  bibiiographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 


0 

D 

D 

D 
D 

n 

D 
D 
D 
D 

D 


D 


Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Ccvers  damaged  / 
Couverture  endommagee 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restaur^  et/ou  pellicula 

Cover  title  missing  /  Le  litre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps  /  Canes  geographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  inl<  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  blacl<)  / 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material  / 
Relie  avec  d'autres  documents 

Only  edition  available  / 
Seule  edition  disponible 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serree  peut 
causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de 
la  marge  interieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have 
tKen  omitted  from  filming  / 1!  se  peut  que  ceriaines 
pages  blanches  ajoutses  lors  d'une  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais,  kxsque  cela  «tait 
s,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  ete  fUmtes. 


Additional  comments  / 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires: 


This  Itcin  it  filmad  at  th*  raduction  ratio  ctiackid  btkm/ 

Ct  document  «t  film*  au  taux  de  rMuction  indiqui  ci-detsoin. 

lOX  14X  18X 


L'Institut  a  microfilme  le  meilleur  examplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
4t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire  qui  soni  peut-Stre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modifications  dans  la  m6th- 
ode  normale  de  filmage  son!  inHiques  ci-dessous. 

I     I      Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I     I      Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommar.ees 

I     I     Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaurees  et/ou  pellicuiees 

r^      Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  dto>lortes,  tachetees  ou  piquees 

r~l      Pages  detached/ Pages  deiachees 

I  I/I      Showthrough  /  Transparence 

I     I     Quality  of  print  varies  / 

' — '      QualUe  inegale  de  I'impresslon 

r~|      Includes  supplementary  material  / 

Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

I  I  Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image  /  Les  pages 
totalement  ou  partiellement  obscurcies  par  un 
feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure,  etc..  ont  &6  filmees 
i  nouveau  de  fapon  a  obtenir  la  meilleure 
Image  possible. 

I  I  Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
— '  discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the 
best  possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant 
ayant  des  colorations  variables  ou  des  decol- 
orations sont  filmees  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la 
meilleur  image  possible. 


; 

r 

□ 

^^ 

12X 

tsx 

20X 

24  X 

28X 

32  X 

Th«  copy  fllmtd  h«r«  hn  baan  raproducad  thanks 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

MacOdnim  Library 
CarlMon  Uniinnity 

Tha  Imagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
possibia  conaidaring  tha  condition  and  laglbility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  Icaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  tpaelficationa. 


Original  copiaa  In  printad  papar  covan  ara  flimad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad  or  llluatratad  impraa- 
sion,  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriata.  Ail 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  flimad  baginning  on  tha 
firat  p^ga  with  a  printad  or  llluatratad  impraa- 
slon.  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  llluatratad  impraaaion. 


Tha  laat  rrcordad  frama  on  aaeh  mierofleha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  -^(moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  ▼  (maaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appiiaa. 

IMapa,  piataa.  charts,  ate.,  may  ba  flimad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraiy  includad  in  on»  axpoaura  ara  flimad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar,  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framaa  aa 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrama  illustrata  tha 
mathod: 


1 

2 

4 

5 

L'MafflplaIra  filing  fut  rtprodult  grie*  i  la 
9tntro»itt  da: 

MacOdrum  Library 
Carltton  Univinity 

Laa  Imagra  (uivantaa  ont  M  raproduitaa  avae  la 
plua  grand  toin.  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  I'axainplaira  film*,  at  an 
eonformit*  avac  laa  eondltiona  du  eontrat  da 
filmaga. 

Laa  axamplairaa  orlginaux  dont  la  eouvanura  an 
papiar  aat  Imprlmto  (ont  fllmta  an  commandant 
par  la  pramlar  plat  at  an  tarminant  toit  par  la 
darnMra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'Impraaaion  ou  d'llluatration.  toit  par  la  lacond 
plat,  salon  la  caa.  Toua  laa  autraa  axamplairaa 
orlginaux  aont  fllmte  an  commandant  par  la 
pramiira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'Impraaaion  ou  d'llluatration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta, 

Un  daa  symbolaa  auivanti  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniira  Imaga  da  chaqua  microflcha,  salon  la 
eaa:  la  symbolo  — »  signifia  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
symbola  y  signifia  "FIN". 

Laa  cartaa,  pianchas,  tablaaux,  ate.  pauvant  itra 
filmto  *  daa  taux  da  rMuction  diffirants. 
Lorsqua  la  documant  ast  trop  grand  pour  itra 
raproduit  an  un  aaui  clich*.  il  ast  film*  i  partir 
da  I'angia  aup4riaur  gaucha.  da  gaucha  *  droita. 
at  da  haut  an  baa.  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'Imagas  nteassaira.  Laa  diagrammas  suivants 
illuatrant  la  m«thoda. 


2 

3 

5 

6 

MICROCOfY   RESOIUTION   TBT  CHART 

(ANSI  and  (SO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^  APPLIED    IM^GE      In 

^^  1653   East    Main    Street 

S^S  RochsBter,    New   York         14609       USA 

■^S:  (^'6)  482  -  0300  -  Phone 

^S  (^16)  288  -  5989  -  Fa. 


1736 


ECHOES 
FROM 
[AGABONDIA 


'<.  v| 


SIS 

i 

PS 

8'66 
1  ^'i 

BLISS 

/ 

CARMAN 

^ 

■ 

1 

t ' 


•TI8  MAY  NOW  m^-tfl 
AND   THROUGH- 
I   SEE   THE   CRE^/ 
I  HEAR  THE  HOL-4  I 


BACK  TO  THE  GO- 
COMES   SUMMER 
BUT  5T0T  THE  GO' 
WHO  WAS  THE  SU- 


"t 


ECHOES   FROM   VAGABONDIA 


Bv  Buss  Carman  and 

RiCHAKD  HOVEY 

Stmt!  St  tm  Vatfllumdu 
Um  Sciiti/nm  Vatabimdui 
Last  Smis  from  Vataboitdia 
^^..  t»nl».  P«r  volume,  $j.oo  ntl-  bv 
■Ml  »i.os;  sold  Mparately  '  ^ 

Lmp  lather,  boxedrpw  Mt,  1,  7,  «,. 
by  mail,  $3.90;  sold  o3y  in  sits  "      ' 

By  Buss  Carman 

^ffJS  ""pS'^.  f''  "^  BOM'  of  I^a 
japan  Boards,  »i.so  i«(;  by  mail,  »i.6o 

'tIBUSHKD    BY    - 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  i    COMPANY 

BOSTON 


i 


f 


i 


ECHOES 

FROM 

VAGABONDIA 

BLISS  CARMAN 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

MCMXII 


i 


[-\  .'>^ 


Copyright,  1911 
Br  Small,  Maynard  and  Company 

(iNCOKrORATSD) 

EnteriJ  at  Stationtri'  Hall 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


TV  7.  M.  G.,a  spirit  uitJismayeJ, 
Bright  as  the  Jay  with  warm  and  generous  aid, 
Happy  as  morning  tohere  the  river  shines. 
Serene  as  sunset  through  her  Belmont  pines. 

Confronting  fortune  with  a  gentle  mirth, 
mth  equal  love  for  Heaven  and  for  Earth, 

Thinking  no  ill,  going  her  duteous  ways. 
Sheer  loveliness  about  her  all  her  days; 

Quiet  to  respond,  unfailing  to  inspire. 
Loving  the  hearthstone  with  celestial  fire  ; 

mth  tender  strength  she  plays  her  quiet  part, 
A  child  of  transport  with  a  woman's  heart. 


CONTENTS 

SPRtKG'S  SARABAND 

THB  FLUTE  OF  SPRING 

DAFFODIL'S  RETURN 

THE  URBAN  PAN 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  FLEETS 

THE  LAST  DAY  AT  STORMFIELD 

THE  SHIPS  OF  YULE 

IN  ST.  GERMAIN  STREET 

IN  ST.   CECILIA  STREET 

'SCONSET 

THE  PATH  TO  SANKOTY 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  HILLBORN 

MORNING  IN  THE  HILLS 

PAN  IN  THE  CATSKILLS 

THE  DREAMERS 

THE  COUNCILLORS 

A  CONUNDRUM 

APOLOGIA 

A  COLOPHON 

ON  THE  PLAZA 

DUST  OF  THE  STREET 

BRONSON  HOWARD 

TO  A  FRIEND 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY 

THE  ANGEL  OP  JOY 

A  LYRIC 

A  WOOD-PATH 

NIKE 

BY  STILL  WATERS 

TE  DKUM 

ON  BURIAL  HILL 

THE  WISE  MEN  FROM  THE  EAST 

A  WATER  COLOR 


8 

ts 

10 

II 
II 
'3 
>4 

.'I 
i8 
ai 

33 

"3 

»4 

36 
28 

29 
30 
31 
3* 
33 
33 
35 
38 
4' 
43 
46 


EL  DORADO 

A  painter's  holiday 

MIRAGE 

THE  WINGED  VICTORY 

TRIUMPHALIS 

THE  ENCHANTED  TRAVELLER 


48 
54 

il 


vHi 


ECHOES   FROM   VAGABONDIA 


SPRING'S  SARABAND. 

OVER  the  hilb  of  April 
With  loft  winds  hand  In  hand, 
Impaiiionate  and  dreamy-eyed, 
Spring  leads  her  saraband. 
Her  garments  float  and  gather 
And  swirl  alonjg  the  plam. 
Her  headgear  is  the  golden  sun, 
Her  cloak  the  silver  rain. 

With  color  and  with  music, 
With  perfumes  and  with  pomp, 
By  meadowland  and  upland, 
Through  pasture,  wood,  and  swamp. 
With  promise  and  enchantment 
Leading  her  mystic  mime. 
She  comes  to  lure  the  world  anew 
With  joy  as  old  as  time. 

Quick  lifts  the  marshy  chorus 
To  transport,  trill  on  trill ; 
There 's  not  a  rod  of  stony  ground 
Unanswering  on  the  hill. 
The  brooks  and  little  rivers 
Dance  down  their  wild  ravines. 
And  children  in  the  city  squares 
Keep  lime,  to  tambounnes. 

The  bluebird  in  the  orchard 
Is  lyrical  for  her. 

The  starling  with  his  meadow  pipe 
Sets  all  the  wood  astir, 
The  hooded  white  spring-beauties 
Are  curtsying  in  the  breeze, 
The  blue  hepaticas  are  out 
Under  the  chestnut  trees. 
I 


gjjjjli,  The  maple  buds  make  glamor, 
Viburnum  waves  its  bloom, 
The  daffodils  and  tulips 
Are  risen  from  the  tomb. 
The  lances  of  Narcissus 
Have  pierred  the  wintry  mold; 
The  commonplace  seems  paradise 
Through  veils  of  greening  gold. 

O  heart,  hear  thou  the  summons. 

Put  every  grief  away, 

When  all  the  motley  masquer  of  eanh 

Are  elad  upon  a  day. 

Alack,  that  any  riortal 

Should  less  than  gladness  bring 

Into  the  choral  joy  that  sounds 

The  saraband  of  spring  I 


THE  FLUTE  OF  SPRING. 

T  ^^Py  f  shining  meadow  stream 
X    That  winds  beneath  an  Eastern  hlU. 
And  ■<  I  year  long  in  sun  or  gloom 
Its  murmuring  voice  is  never  still. 

Tko  summer  Jies  more  gently  there, 
The  April  howeia  are  earlier,— 
The  first  warm  rain-wind  from  the  Sound 
Sets  all  their  eager  hearts  astir. 

And  there  when  lengthening  twilights  fall 
As  softly  as  a  wild  bird's  wW, 
Across  the  valley  in  the  dusk 
I  hear  the  silver  flute  of  spring. 

2 


DAFFODIL'S   RETURN. 

WHAT  matter  if  the  tun  be  lost  ? 
.  V  "*'  "nat'er  though  the  sky  be  Cray  f 
There  s joy  enough  about  the  house, 
For  Daffodil  comes  home  to^y. 

There 's  news  of  swallows  on  the  air, 
There 's  word  of  April  on  the  way. 
They  're  calling  flowers  within  the  street, 
And  D  irfodil  comes  home  to^ay. 

O  wl:  >  would  care  what  fate  may  bring. 
Or  what  the  years  may  take  away ! 
There  "s  life  enough  within  the  hour, 
For  Daffodil  comes  home  tchday. 


THE   URBAN   PAN. 

ONCE  more  the  magic  days  s  re  come 
With  stronger  sun  and  milder  air : 
The  shops  are  full  of  daffodils; 
There 's  golden  leisure  everywhere. 
I  heard  my  Lou  this  mo.  ning  shout : 
"  Here  comes  the  hurdy-gurdy  man ! " 
And  through  the  o[en  wmdow  caught 
The  piping  of  the  urban  Pan. 

I  laid  my  wintry  task  aside. 
And  took  a  day  to  follow  joy : 
The  trail  of  beauty  and  the  call 
That  lured  me  when  I  was  a  boy. 
I  looked,  and  there  looked  up  at  me 
A  smiling,  swarthy,  hairy  man 
With  kindling  eye— and  well  I  knew 
The  piping  of  the  urban  Pan. 
3 


"J^f »*«  He  c«n|ht  my  mood ;  hli  hat  wu  off  | 
I  toaicd  the  ungrudged  diver  down. 
The  cunning  vagrant,  every  year 
He  caati  hia  apell  upon  the  town  I 
And  we  muat  fling  him,  old  a;id  young. 
Our  dimea  or  coppera,  aa  we  can  ■ 
And  every  heart  muat  leap  to  hear 
The  piping  of  the  urban  Pan. 

pe  mualc  awella  and  fadea  again. 
And  I  in  dreama  am  far  away, 
Where  a  bright  river  sparklea  down 
To  meet  a  blue  Aegean  bay. 
There,  in  the  springtime  of  the  world. 
Are  dancing  fauna,  and  in  their  van, 
la  one  who  pipes  a  deathless  tone  — 
The  earth-born  and  the  urban  Pan. 

And  so  he  followa  down  the  block, 
A  troop  of  children  in  his  train. 
The  light-foot  dancers  of  the  street 
Enamored  of  the  reedy  strain. 
I  hear  their  laughter  rise  and  ring 
Above  the  noise  of  truck  and  van, 
As  down  the  mellow  wind  fades  out 
The  piping  of  the  urban  Pan. 


THE  SAILING  OF  THE   FLEETS. 
TVTOW  the  spring  Is  In  the  town, 
i  ^  Now  the  wind  is  In  the  tree. 
And  the  wintered  kerls  go  down 
To  the  calling  of  the  sea. 
4 


Out  from  mooring,  dock,  and  slip, 
Through  the  harbor  buoyi  they  glide. 
Drawing  aeawarri  tiil  they  dip 
To  the  twirling  oi  the  tide. 

One  by  one  and  two  by  two, 
Down  the  channel  turni  they  go, 
Steering  for  the  open  blue 
Where  the  talty  great  airi  blow; 

Craft  of  many  a  build  and  trim, 
Every  itltch  of  laii  unfurled, 
Till  they  hang  upon  the  rim 
Of  the  axure  ocean  world. 

Who  haa  ever,  man  or  boy, 
Seen  the  sea  all  flecked  with  gold, 
And  not  longed  to  go  with  joy 
Forth  upon  adventures  bold  l 

Who  could  bear  to  stay  indoor, 
Now  the  wind  is  in  the  street, 
For  the  creaking  of  the  oar 
And  the  tugging  of  the  sheet  I 

Now  the  spring  is  in  the  town. 
Who  would  not  a  rover  be. 
When  tlie  wintered  keels  go  down 
To  the  calling  of  the  sea  ? 


^"^a^trLh-'^^/t  stormfieid 

n,     1   ,  ^P"'  sunrise  poura 
Over  the  hardwood  ridges 

f°""'"«  and  greening  now 
In  the  first  magic  of  spring 

The  wild  cherry  tree<i  ar«  i„  ui 

ThebloodrootTswh?.eTnd"erfoor' 
The  serene  early  light  flow,  n„    ' 

In3^fli:§"'''\^'?^^'fc'd; 

wtt'^^'^^^-PP-oo™ 
Slowly  he  opens  his  e4, 
Alter  long  weariness,  smiles 
And  stretches  his  arms  overhead 
While  those  about  him  take  a 

With  his  awakening  strength 
(Morning  and  sprirfg  in  thfair 
The  strong  clean  scfnts  of  earth 
The  call  of  the  golden-shaft        • 
R>ngmg  across  the  hills), 

On-„    fu  "P  !■'"  heartening  book 
Opens  the  volume  and  reaSs  _  ' 

Th^e''fr^°i^,™«eedCarijfe, 
i  he  dour  philosopher  '  ' 
Who  looked  askance  upon  life, 
i;Und,  ironical,  grim,  ' 

Yet  sound  at  the  core. 

But  weariness  returns ; 
He  lays  the  book  aside 

With  W  glasses  upon  the  bed, 
6 


And  gladly  sleeps.    Sleep, 
Blessed  abundant  sleep 
Is  all  that  he  needs. 

And  when  the  close  of  day 

Keddens  upon  the  lulls 

And  washes  the  room  with  rose, 

In  the  twilight  hush 

The  Summoner  comes  to  him 

Jtver  so  gently,  u.iseen, 

iouches  him  on  the  shoulder : 

And  with  the  departing  sun 

Our  great  funning  friend  is  gone. 

How  he  has  made  us  laugh ! 
A  whole  generation  of  men 
Smiled  in  the  joy  of  his  wit. 
But  who  knows  whether  he  was  not 
^'t^'I'ose  deep  jesters  of  old 
Who  dwelt  at  the  courts  of  kings, 
Arthur's   Pendragon's,  Lear's, 
I'lymg  the  wise  fool's  trade, 
Makmg  men  merry  at  will, 
Hiding  their  deeper  thoughts 
Under  a  motley  array,— 
Keen-eyed,  serious  men, 
Watching  the  sorry  world, 
A,-f,.S*H°y  pageant  of  life, 
With  pity  and  wisdom  and  love 

Fearless,  extravagant,  wild. 
His  caustic  merciless  mirth 
Was  leveled  at  pompous  shams. 
Doubt  not  behind  that  mask 
There  dwelt  the  soul  of  a  man, 
7 


TAtLaa 
Day  at 


/^vi      Resolute,  sorrowing,  sage 
s>^mjs.u  As  sure  a  champion  of  loid 
As  ever  rode  forth  to  frly. 

A„H  trS*??""'  »°d  ShakesVeare  wait 

And  ^.°^^'!  ''"S^  °"  •'■■^  words,        ' 
And  Cervantes  not  far  off 
Listens  and  smiles  apart, 

He?sW-"'''"?'r^^'"'rawl 
He  IS  jesting  witliDagonet  now. 


THE   SHIPS   OF  YULE. 

W"n  ?  '  V^  J"''  »  ''«le  boy, 
Ihadai''f',J''''"'°*':hool/' 
;"*?»neet  of  forty  sail 
I  called  the  Ships  of  Yule ; 

Of  every  rig  from  rakish  brig 
T^1,S"i"'  barkentine,       ^ 

Wu'^'XalWi^d^e^t 

M/Kit^tivi^r"'^- 

8 


They  stopped  at  every  port  of  call 
From  Babylon  to  Rome, 
To  load  with  all  the  lovely  things 
We  never  had  at  home ; 

With  elephants  and  ivory 
Bought  from  the  King  of  Tyre, 
And  shells  and  silk  and  sandal-wood 
That  sailor  men  admire ; 

With  figs  and  dates  from  Samarcand, 
And  sfuiatty  ginger-jars. 
And  s.    nted  silver  amulets 
From  Indian  bazaars; 

With  sugar-cane  from  Port  of  Spain, 
And  monkeys  from  Ceylon, 
And  paper  lanterns  from  Pekin 
With  painted  dragons  on ; 

With  cocoanuts  from  Zanzibar, 
And  pines  from  Singapore ; 
And  when  they  had  unloaded  these 
They  could  go  back  for  more. 

And  even  after  I  was  big 
And  had  to  go  to  school, 
My  mind  was  often  far  away 
Aboard  the  Ships  of  Yule. 


Tht  Skiit 
nfYuU. 


IN   ST\  GERMAIN   STREET 

T^^OUGH  the  street  of  St.  Germain 
J.      March  the  tattered  hosts  of  rain, 

While  the  wind  with  vagrant  fife 
Whips  their  chilly  ranks  to  life 

From  the  window  I  can  see 

Their  ghostly  banners  blowing  free, 

r^J^'y  P"s  '0  where  the  ships 
Crowd  about  the  wharves  and  slips. 

There  at  dav's  end  they  embark 
To  invade  the  realms  of  dark? 

And  the  sun  comes  out  again 
In  the  street  of  St.  Getmlin. 


'N  ST   CECILIA  STREET. 

il    nVil^f  "'1^  ^''^"  '  ''«"  the  chimes 
TThiniTf  T '''^"'y  S'-  Cecilia's  ringine 
I  think  If  I  get  up  betimes  ^    ** 

I,  too,  might  hear  the  angels  singing. 

Th^f  "P  I  Jj-mp.  with  such  a  start 
That  I  am  dressed  before  I  know  it. 
And  such  a  gladness  in  my  hear^ 
I  m  sure  all  day  my  face  must  show  it 

10 


'SCONSET. 

DID  you  ever  hear  of  'Sconset,  where  there's 
nothing  much  but  moors, 

And  beach  and  sea  and  silence  and  eternal  out- 
of-doors  — 

Where  the  azure  round  of  ocean  meets  the  paler 
dome  of  day, 

Where  the  sailing  clouds  of  summer  on  the  sea- 
line  melt  away, 

And  there 's  not  an  ounce  of  trouble 

Anywhere  ? 

Where  the  field-larks  in  the  morning  will  be  cry- 
ing at  the  door, 

With  the  whisper  of  the  moor-wind  and  the  surf 
along  the  shore ; 

Where  the  little  shingled  houses  down  the  little 
grassy  street 

Are  gray  wif  i  salt  of  sea-winds,  and  the  strong 
sea-air  is  sweet 

With  the  flowers  in  their  door-yards ; 

Me  for  there  1 


THE   PATH   TO   SANKOTY. 

IT  winds  along  the  headlands 
Above  the  open  sea  — 
The  lonely  moorland  footpath 
That  leads  to  Sankoty. 

The  crooning  sea  spreads  sailless 
And  gray  to  the  world's  rim, 
Where  hang  the  reeking  fog-banks 
Primordial  and  dim. 


'■i 


The  Path 
t9  Sankofy. 


VlTJ'^^  "■•"  ««''«s  currents, 
And  the  eternal  tide 
Chafes  over  hidden  shallows 
Where  the  white  horses  ride. 

The  wistful  fragrant  moorlands 
Whose  smile  bids  panic  cease, 
Lie  treeless  and  cloud-shadowed 
In  grave  and  lonely  peace. 

Across  their  flowering  bosom. 
From  the  far  end  of  day 

A  fIf'T  ■''u  «"*'  *°^'  moor-winds 
All  sweet  with  rose  and  bay. 

A  world  as  large  and  simple 
As  first  emerged  for  man, 
Reared  for  the  human  drama. 
Before  the  play  began. 

O  well  the  soul  must  treasure 
The  calm  that  sets  it  free  — 
Tue  vast  and  tender  skyline, 
The  sea-turn's  wizardry, 

Solace  of  swaying  grasses. 
The  friendsiiip  of  sweet-fern  — 
And  m  the  world's  confusion 
Remembering,  must  yearn 

To  tread  the  mooriand  footpath 
That  leads  to  Sankoty, 
Hearing  tl- .  field-larks  shrilling 
Beside  the  saiUess  sea. 

12 


THE   CRY  OF  THE   HILLBORN. 

I  AM  homesick  for  the  mountains  - 
My  heroic  mother  hills  — 
And  tne  longing  that  is  on  me 
No  solace  ever  stills. 

I  would  climb  to  brooding  summits 
With  their  old  untarnished  dreams, 
Cool  my  heart  in  forest  shadows 
To  the  lull  of  falling  streams  ; 

Hear  the  innocence  of  aspens 
That  babble  in  the  breeze, 
And  the  fragrant  sudden  showers 
That  patter  on  the  trees. 

I  am  lonely  for  my  thrushes 
In  their  hermiUge  withdrawn, 
Toning  the  quiet  transports 
Of  twilight  and  of  dawn. 

I  need  the  pure,  strong  mornings. 
When  the  soul  of  day  is  still, 
With  the  touch  of  frost  that  kindles 
The  scarlet  on  the  hill  J 

Lone  trails  and  winding  woodroads 
To  outlooks  wild  and  high, 
And  the  pale  moon  waitmg  sundown 
Where  ledges  cut  the  sky. 

I  dream  of  upland  clearings 
Where  cones  of  sumac  burn. 
And  gaunt  and  gray-mossed  boulders 
Lie  deep  in  beds  of  fern  ; 
'3 


^H^yVi.^  ?r»y  and  mottled  beeches, 
imi.  The  birches'  satin  sheen. 

The  majesty  of  hemlocks 

Crowning  the  blue  ravine. 

My  eyes  dim  for  the  skyline 
Where  purple  peaks  aspire, 
And  the  forges  of  the  sunset 
Flare  up  in  golden  fire. 

There  crests  look  down  unheeding 
And  see  the  great  winds  blow, 
Tossmg  the  huddled  tree-tops 
In  gorges  far  below; 

Where  cloud-mists  from  the  warm  earth 
Roll  up  about  their  knees, 
And  hang  their  filmy  tatters 
Like  prayers  upon  the  trees. 

I  cry  for  night-blue  shadows 
On  plain  and  hill  and  dome,  — 
The  spell  of  old  enchantments. 
The  sorcery  of  home. 


MORNING   IN  THE   HILLS. 

TTOW  quiet  is  the  morning  in  the  hills! 
Tr,:!  I      s'ealthy  shadows  of  the  summer  clouds 

L^nH    r^''  **  ""°"'  ^"'*  "^«  mountain  stream 
bounds  his  sonorous  music  far  below 
In  the  deep-wooded  wind-enchanted  clove 
H 


Hemlock  and  aspen,  chestnut,  beech,  and  fir        Mor,m,m 
Go  tiering  down  from  storm-worn  crest  and  ledec  '**  "*'"■ 
While  in  the  hollows  of  the  dark  ravine 
See  the  red  road  emerge,  then  disappear 
Towards  the  wide  plain  and  fertile  valley  lands. 

My  forest  cabin  half-way  up  the  glen 
Is  solitary,  save  for  one  wise  thrush. 
The  sound  of  falling  water,  and  the  wind 
Mysteriously  conversing  with  the  leaves. 

Here  I  abide  unvisited  by  doubt. 
Dreaming  of  far-off  turmoil  and  despair, 
The  race  of  men  and  love  and  fleeting  time, 
What  ife  may  be,  or  beautv,  caught  and  held 
!•  or  a  brief  moment  at  eternal  poise. 

What  impulse  now  shall  quicken  and  make  live 
This  outward  semblance  and  this  inward  self  ? 
One  breath  of  being  fills  the  bubble  world. 
Colored  and  frail,  with  fleeting  change  on  change. 

Surely  some  God  contrived  so  fair  a  thing 
In  the  vast  leisure  of  uncounted  days 
And  touched  it  with  the  breath  of  living  joy, 
Wondrous  and  fair  and  wise  !    It  must  be  so. 


PAN    IN   THE    CATSKILLS. 

THEY  say  that  he  is  dead,  and  now  no  more 
„„    The  reedy  syrinx  sounds  among  the  hills, 
When  the  long  summer  heat  is  on  the  land. 
But  I  have  heard  the  Catskill  thrushes  sing, 
And  therefore  am  incredulous  of  death, 
Of  pain  and  sorrow  and  mortality. 
'S 


oSmiu'  J"  "•0"}>''«  caflom,  deep  with  hemlock  ihade, 
i«««tt.    j^  ,o|j,ude,  of  twilight  or  of  dawn, 

I  have  been  i»pt  away  from  time  and  care 
By  the  enchantment  of  a  golden  strain 
At  pure  as  ever  pierced  the  Thracian  wild, 
Filling  the  listener  with  a  mute  surmise. 

At  evening  and  at  morning  I  have  gone 
Down  the  cool  trail  between  the  beech-tree  boles, 
And  heard  the  haunting  music  of  the  wood 
Ring  through  the  silence  of  the  dark  ravine, 
Flooding  the  earth  with  beauty  and  with  joy 
And  all  the  ardors  of  creation  old. 

And  then  within  my  pagan  heart  awoke 
Remembrance  of  far  olfand  fabled  years 
In  the  untarnished  sunrise  of  the  world. 
When  cleareyed  Hellas  in  her  rapture  heard 
A  slow  mysterious  piping  wild  and  keen 
Thnll  through  her  vales,  and  whispered,  "  It  is 
Pan !  " 


THE   DREAMERS. 

CHARLEMAGNE  with  knight  and  lord, 
In  the  hill  at  Ingelheim, 
Slumbers  at  the  council  board. 
Seated  waiting  for  the  time. 

With  their  swords  across  their  knees 
In  that  chamber  dimly  lit. 
Chin  on  breast  like  effigies 
Of  the  dreaming  gods,  they  sit. 
i6 


Long  ago  they  went  to  tleep, 
While  great  wars  above  them  hnrled, 
Taking  counsel  how  to  keep 
Giant  evil  from  the  world. 


Ortamtrtt 


Golden-armored,  iron-crowned, 
There  in  silence  they  await 
The  last  war,  —  in  war  renowned, 
Done  with  doubting  and  debate. 

What  is  all  our  clamor  for  ? 
Petty  virtue,  puny  crime, 
Beat  in  vain  against  the  door 
Of  the  hill  at  fngelheim. 

When  at  last  shall  dawn  the  day 
For  the  saving  of  the  world, 
They  will  forth  in  war  array, 
Iron-armored,  golden-curled. 

In  the  hill  at  Ingclheim, 
Still,  they  say,  the  Emperor, 
Like  a  warrior  in  his  prime, 
Waits  the  message  at  the  door. 


Shall  the  long  enduring  fight 
Break  above  our  heads  in  vain, 
Plunged  in  lethargy  and  night, 
Like  the  men  of  Charlemagne  ? 

Comrades,  through  the  Council  Hall 
Of  the  heart,  inert  and  dumb. 
Hear  ye  not  the  summoning  call, 
"  Up,  my  lords,  the  hour  is  come ! " 
■7 


THE  COUNCIILORS.    (Connecticut  VAtxEv.) 
IN  the  purple  heat  haie  ' 

X    Of  long  mldaummcr  Hays 
Lay  the  range,  peak  on  peak, 
Till  one  thought,  "  Could  they  apeak 
Thoie  old  ones  who  heard 
The  firit  life-bringing  word  I " 

With  the  primal  unroat 
Locked  away  in  their  breaat. 
Unperturbed  they  await 
The  fulfilment  ot  fate. 
Seated  there  on  the  plain. 
Like  King  Charlemagne 
And  his  heroes  who  keep 
The  long  council  of  sleep, 
Until  need  and  the  hour 
Shall  recall  them  to  power. 

Once  an  age  the  King  wakes. 
"Is  it  time?"  his  voice  breaks 
The  silence.     "  Nay,  Sire." 
Then  the  echoes  retire, 
And  sleep  falls  again 
Gray  and  softer  than  rain. 

Thuo  Mount  Holyoke 
Overheard,  as  he  woke. 
The  yearn  and  the  sigh, 
Between  Low  and  High,— 

Toby  speaking  to  Tom, 
"  Thy  distance  of  blue 
I  can  hardly  see  through, 
Proclaims  the  old  story 
i8 


Of  pot>ible  glory, 
The  entrancement  of  raptura 
Our  utmost  may  capture, 
A.lventuring  still 
Led  by  vision  and  will,  — 
Thou  truth's  Chrysostom  I 
Thy  beauty  and  glamor 
Above  the  world's  cUmor 
Are  aglow  with  a  thought 
Urgent,  mystic,  untaught. 
Neither  Christi-in  nor  Kom, 
Of  escape  and  of  flight 
To  the  spirit's  lone  neight, 
Beyond  the  last  verge 
Of  soul's  strife  and  surge. 
The  dominion  past  dream, 
Where  acci.  -d  Is  supreme. 
Undespairing  and  bold. 
Through  what  cycles  untold 
Of  calm,  storm,  sun  and  rain, 
Soared  thy  life  to  attain 
Its  transcendence  serene,  — 
That  victorious  mien 
Over  travail's  maelstrom  I " 


CmmHlm, 


Then  Tom  said  to  Toby, 
"  In  the  farness  divine 
Each  hue,  every  line. 
Must  inblend  and  suspire 
With  the  tone  of  desire, 
Till  all  flaws  be  recast 
To  perfection  at  last. 
Whether  lofty  or  low  be 
Thy  measure,  what  matters  f 
When  blinding  noon  scatters, 

'9 


Tlu 

CoHmillori. 


And  soul  grows  aware 
Of  a  soul  through  the  glare, 
Convinced  there  must  so  be 
A  reach  and  a  lift 
Through  the  dusk's  purple  rift, 
To  the  large,  fair,  and  new 
Where  ideals  come  true, 
With  no  doubt  of  the  end, 
Let  heart  hold  its  trend. 
Shall  Potumcook  disdain 
The  deep  corn-bearing  plain. 
Through  the  slow-plowing  years  ? 
Thou  art  crowned  with  thy  peers. 
When  over  thy  crest 
The  great  sun  from  the  West 
Bids  the  glory  and  glow  be." 

Then  said  Holyoke, 
"  It  is  well  that  you  spoke 
Low  and  High  are  as  one, 
When  soul's  service  is  done ! " 

Peak  on  peak  lay  the  range, 
With  no  word  to  exchange, 
Not  a  hint  to  break  through 
That  soft  stillness  of  blue,— 
All  as  silent  as  when 
God  first  whispered  to  men. 

tTJIV*,  '■''*  "■«  g^ea*  If'ng 
With  his  captains  a-ring, 
These  councillors  sleep 
Untroubled  and  deep 
Is  their  rest.    They  abide 
Heat  and  cold,  time  and  tide; 

20 


Their  supreme  heritage, 
To  grow  lovely  with  ->(>■«. 
How  could  they  li;.   ..'.o.,,,  true 
With  their  head,  s.i  the  blue      ' 
And  their  feet  ii  the  ilov- 
Of  the  river  whe  e  fo 
Mirrored  stories  -'•'it  ^e  > 
While  the  world,  out  of  chime 
And  unheeding,  goes  by, 
They  translate  earth  and  sky 
These  old  mystics.     Ah,  theirs 
Are  eternal  affairs! 


Tie 
CaunciUart. 


CONUNDRUM. 

I   AM  Greek  in  the  morning 
And  Gothic  at  night; 
I  change  without  warning 
From  grief  to  delight. 

I  'm  grim  in  November, 
I  'm  gaudy  in  June, 
As  warm  as  an  ember. 
As  cold  as  the  moon. 

I  'm  sober  on  Sunday, 
On  Monday  I  'm  blue ; 
But  what  I  do  one  day 
I  don*t  always  do. 

I  'm  Western  in  bearing, 
And  Eastern  in  breed. 
The  Occident's  daring, 
The  Orient's  creed. 


tl 


A  Conun- 
drum^ 


I  camp  or  I  travel, 
I  triumph  or  fail, 
And  who  shall  unravel 
The  loops  of  my  trail? 

The  dust  of  the  desert, 
The  wind  of  the  sea, 
The  spray  of  the  river 
Are  mingled  in  me. 

I  run  the  whole  gamut 
From  heaven  to  hell, 
And  when  I  don't  damn  it, 
I  say  it  is  well. 


APOLOGIA. 

("'Alb^J'™  *  *°"  °f  fantastical  fortune 
V_-  With  songs  of  elation  and  sighs  of  despair  • 
Say  he  was  carele.-.s,  imp.tient,  and  moX,"^      ' 
Fickle  as  water  and  wilful  as  air  j  ' 

Say  he  would  idle,  procrastinate,  dally 
Spend  golden  days  without  doing  a  thing, 
Plan  while  his  fellows  made  mudi  of  thlpresent 
Smile  as  the  opportune  hour  took  wing  ,•  ' 

Aware  of  ambition,  perfection,  and  power, 
Yet  willing  to  loiter  and  let  the  world  be- 
bay  there  was  never  a  reed  in  the  river 
More  ready  to  bend  to  the  current  than  he- 

22 


n?Lt  copldnever  refuse  a  companion  Apo,.,u.. 

Bidding  hirn  in  from  the  street  to  the  bar 
Never  resist  the  enchantment  of  pleasure  - 
Joy  was  his  captain  and  beauty  his  star  ; 

Call  hini  a  ne'er-do-weJI,  harlequin,  dreamer 
Flash  of  the  rocket  and  froth  of  the  sea:      ' 
Say  his  whole  life  was  a  waste  of  endeavor - 
Never  a  moment  unloving  of  thee  ! 

Revel  of  April,  or  ravage  of  winter, 

worid?'"  '"°''""""'  ^'°^^  •""«=<•  =>'  'he 

^  turmoil,*^""'  °*"''  '^""  '^''""^''ed   by  the 
When     tempests 
unfurled  ? 


are    loosed    and    tornadoes 


Evl;v„»'  ""^.t'y  '""  ^^^<^^^i  in  heaven 
Eveiy  time  earth  must  revolve  into  night  > 
Do  tfie  stars  wheel  to  a  faltering  measure ' 
bhall  not  the  morning  return  to  the  height? 

So  thou  dear  heart,  beyond  folly  or  failure 
Undimmed  by  distraction,  by  doubt  undismayed 
ThMf  •'  °i''  J"*"  "'"'  'he  "Im  of  an  anTef    ' 
Abides  in  the  heaven  thy  friendship  ha^  lade 


A   COLOPHON. 

"\X/"HEN  all  my  writing  has  been  done 
"  »'      Except  the  final  colophon, 
23 


«',"'*■      ^""^  '  '""'"  *'■''  'beloved  verse 

Farewell  for  better  or  for  worse, 

I-et  me  not  linger  o'er  tlie  jiage 
In  doubting  and  regretful  age ; 

Hut  as  an  unknown  scribe  in  some 
Monastic  dim  scriptorium, 

When  twiliglit  on  his  labor  fell 
At  the  glad-heard  refection  bell, 

Might  add  poor  Body's  thanks  to  be 
From  spiritual  toils  set  free. 

Let  me  conclude  with  nearty  zest, 

Laus  Deo!  Aunc  bibimliim  est.' 


ON    THE    PLAZA. 

ONE  August  day  I  sat  beside 
A  caf^  window  open  wide 
To  let  the  shower-freshened  air 
Blow  in  across  the  Plaza,  where 
In  golden  pomp  against  the  dark 
Green  leafy  background  of  the  Park, 
St.  Gaudens'  hero,  gaunt  and  grim. 
Rides  on  with  Victory  leading  him. 

The  wet,  black  asphalt  seemed  to  hold 
In  every  hollow  pools  of  gold, 
And  clouds  of  gold  and  pink  and  gray 
Were  piled  up  at  the  end  of  day, 
24 


iV 
It'l 


Far  down  tlie  cross  street,  where  one  tower 
itill  glistened  from  tne  drenching  shower. 

A  weary  white-haired  man  went  by 
Coohng  his  forehead  gratefully 
After  the  day's  great  heat.     A  girl, 
Her  thin  white  garments  in  a  swirl 
Illown  back  against  her  breasts  and  knees. 
Like  a  Winged  Victory  in  the  breeze, 
Ahve  and  modern  and  superb, 
Crossed  from  the  circle  to  the  curb 


OhH, 


We  sat  there  watching  people  pass, 
Umking  the  ice  against  the  glass 
And  talking  idly —  books  or  art, 
Or  something  equally  apart 
From  the  essential  stress  and  strife 
That  rudely  form  and  further  life, 
Ijljid  of  a  respite  from  the  heat, 
When  down  the  middle  of  the  street, 
I  rundling  a  hurdy-gurdy,  gay 
In  spite  of  the  dull-stifling  day, 
TJiree  street-musicians  came.     The  man, 
With  hair  and  beard  as  black  as  Pan 
btro  led  on  one  side  with  lordly  grace, 
While  a  young  girl  tugged  at  a  trace 
Upon  the  other.     And  between 
The  shafts  there  walked  a  laughing  queen 

wlf  "I'rlf  r  'TPy-  ^'™"g  and  free!  ^         ' 
What  likelie.  l.ind  than  ftaly 
Breeds  such  abandon .'    Confident 
And  rapturous  in  mere  living  spent 
tach  moment  to  the  utmost,  there 
With  broad,  deep  chest  and  kerchiefed  hair, 
*5 


piJi!       ^'"' '"'"'  thrown  back,  bare  throat,  and  waist 
Supple,  heroic  and  free-laced. 
Between  her  two  companions  walked 
This  splendid  woman,  chaffed  and  talked, 
Did  half  the  work,  made  all  the  cheer 
Of  that  small  company. 

No  fear 
Of  failure  in  a  soul  like  hers 
That  every  moment  throbs  and  stirs 
With  merry  ardor,  virile  hope. 
Brave  effort,  nor  in  all  its  scope 
Has  room  for  thoug'it  or  discontent. 
Each  day  its  own  sufficient  vent 
And  source  of  happiness. 

Without 
A  trace  of  bitterness  or  doubt 
Of  life's  true  worth,  she  strode  at  ease 
Before  those  empty  palaces, 
A  simple  heiress  of  the  earth 
And  all  its  joys  by  happy  birth. 
Beneficent  as  breeze  or  dew, 
And  fresh  as  though  the  world  were  new 
And  toil  and  grief  were  not.     How  rare 
A  personality  was  there  I 


DUST  OF  THE   STREET. 

THIS  cosmic  dust  beneath  our  feet 
Rising  to  hurry  down  the  street, 

Borne  by  the  wind  and  blown  astray 
In  its  erratic  senseless  way, 
26 


Is  the  same  stuff  as  you  atid  I  —  DMit/iHt 

With  knowledge  and  desire  put  by.  ^'"''■ 

Thousands  of  times  since  time  began 
It  has  been  used  I'or  malcing  man, 

Freighted  like  us  with  every  sense 
Of  spirit  and  intelligence, 

To  walk  the  world  and  know  the  fine 
Large  consciousness  of  things  divine. 

These  wandering  atoms  in  their  day 
Perhaps  have  passed  this  very  way, 

With  eager  step  and  flowerlike  face, 
With  lovely  ardor,  poise,  and  grace. 

On  what  delightful  errands  bent. 
Passionate,  generous,  and  intent,  — 

An  angel  still,  though  veiled  and  gloved. 
Made  to  love  us  and  to  be  loved. 

Friends,  when  the  summons  comes  for  me 
To  turn  my  back  (reluctantly) 


On  this  delightful  play,  I  claim 
Only  one  thing  in  friendship's  r 


name; 


And  yon  will  not  decline  a  task 
So  slight,  when  it  is  all  I  ask  : 

Scatter  my  ashes  in  the  street 
Where  avenue  and  crossway  meet. 
27 


No  granite  and  cement  lor  roe, 

To  needlessly  perpetuate 

An  unimportant  name  and  date. 

Others  may  wish  to  lay  them  down 
On  some  fair  hillside  far  from  town, 

Where  slim  white  birches  wave  and  gleam 
Beside  a  shadowy  woodland  stream, 

Or  in  luxurious  beds  of  fern, 
But  I  would  have  my  dust  return 

To  the  one  place  it  loved  the  best 
In  days  when  it  was  happiest. 


BRONSON    HOWARD. 

OTHERS   must  praise  him  for  the  plays  he 
wrote, 
Or  criticise  him  in  perfunctory  mode. 
I  only  know  our  peerless  friend  is  gone, 
Leavmg  for  us  an  emptier  world  where  once 
This  gentlest  of  all  gentle  men  abode. 

Let  us  not  wrong  so  genuine  a  soul  — 
So  modest  after  all  his  honored  years  — 
With  high-flown  eulogy  and  sounding  phrase. 
It  is  enough  that  loss  of  him  must  reach 
To  the  profound  sincerity  of  tears. 
28 


Many  will  see  him  still  with  dog  and  pipe 
Strolling  through  little  'Sconset  by  the  sea, 
Among  the  happy  bathers  on  the  beach, 
Watching  the  sunset  on  the  purple  moors, 
Or  on  the  way  to  lonely  Sankoty. 


Brtmian 
Htwardt 


The  courtly  welcome  from  his  cabin  door, 
Far  from  the  mainland  on  his  isle  of  dreams, 
Must  hold  its  spell  forever  in  our  hearts, 
To  shame  ungenerous  credence  or  offense 
With  faith  in  simple  kindness  and  high  themes. 

When  last  I  saw  him  it  was  at  his  ease 
On  the  wide  lounge  before  the  blazing  fire  — 
The  hospitable  hearthstone  of  The  Players. 
So  free  of  spirit,  so  fine,  and  so  humane. 
Kindly  to  judge  and  kindling  to  inspire  ! 

Dear  Bronson  Howard !  Could  mortal  ever  live 
More  loyally  for  loveliness  and  riglit  ? 
We  shall  not  find  him  now  by  hearth  nor  shore, 
But  all  life  long  love  must  recall  his  smile  — 
Immortal  friend  of  sweetness  and  of  light. 


TO  A  FRIEND,    with    a    copy   of  the  last 

SONGS  FROM  VAGABONDIA. 

DEAR  friend,  our  comrade  who  left  here 
His  beautiful  unfinished  songs, 
With  Shelley  and  the  sons  of  light 
To  the  majestic  past  belongs. 
^9 


;|J 


frind. 


By  winter  fire,  by  iummer  sun, 
vve  shall  not  have  him  any  more. 
That  courtlv  leisure,  that  slow  smile, 
Have  found  new  countries  to  explore. 

He  cannot  lift  you  hand  nor  voice, 
In  the  old  way  to  let  you  know 
He  loves  you  and  would  have  you  elad 
He  uses  mine  to  tell  you  so. 


■^O  4,Y0UNG  LADY  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY 
■yHE  marching  years  go  by 

Tit   u  "  J.'"'".*''  J*""  gannent's  hem. 
The  bandits  by  and  by 
Will  bid  ycu  0,0  with  them. 

Trust  not  that  caravan  ! 
Old  vaeabonds  are  they  j 
They 'ir  rob  you  if  they  can, 
And  make  believe  it 's  play. 

Make  the  old  robbers  rive 
Of  all  the  spoils  they  fear,— 
Their  truth,  to  help  you  live  — 
Their  joy,  to  keep  you  fair.  ' 

Ask  not  for  gauds  nor  gold. 
Nor  fame  that  falsely  nng,  j 
The  foolish  world  grows  old 
Caring  for  all  these  things. 
30 


*"•  BirlA- 


A     Nor  sadness  any  more  • 
Great  Joy  has  kept  my  door. 

That  angel  of  the  calm 
All-comprehendinK  smile. 
No  menace  can  dismay, 
No  falsity  begui.e. 

Out  of  the  house  of  life 
Before  him  fled  away 

Languor,  regret,  and  strife 
And  sorrow  on  that  day. 

Grim  fear,  unmanly  doubt 
And  impotent  despair 
Went  at  his  bidding  forth 
Among  the  things  that  were,— 

Leaving  a  place  all  clean, 
Resounding  of  the  sea 

To  be  a  home  for  thee. 
31 


LYRIC. 

OH,  once  I  could  not  undertUnd 
The  tob  within  the  throat  of  iprinc,  - 
The  ihrllllng  of  the  frogs,  nor  why 
The  birdi  lo  paiiionately  aing. 

That  waa  before  your  beauty  came 
And  atooped  to  teach  my  aou!  deaire, 
When  on  theae  mortal  Ifpa  you  laid 
The  magic  and  Immortalfire. 

I  wondered  why  the  aea  ahould  acem 
So  gray,  so  lonely,  and  ao  old  ; 
The  sigh  of  level-driving  snows 
In  winter  so  forlornly  cold. 

I  wondered  what  it  waa  could  give 
The  scarlet  autumn  pomps  their  pride. 
And  paint  wirh  colors  not  of  earth 
The  glory  of  the  mountainside. 

I  could  not  tell  why  youth  should  dream 
And  worship  at  the  evening  star. 
And  yet  must  go  with  eager  feet 
Where  danger  and  where  splendor  are. 

I  could  not  g  ess  why  men  at  timea. 
Beholding  be.uty,  should  go  mad 
With  joy  or  sorrow  or  despair 
Or  some  unknown  delight  they  had. 

I  wondered  what  they  would  receive 
From  Time's  inexorable  hand 
So  full  of  loveliness  and  doom. 
But  now,  ah,  now  I  understand  t 
32 


i  WOOD-PATH. 

AT  evening  and  al  mornine 
f       .."y*"  enchanted  way 

.  *?'^  ""  "'°''''' '"  wonder, 
And  have  no  word  to  »ajr. 

I«  ii  the  path  we  traversed 
One  twilight,  thou  and  I , 
Thy  beauty  all  a  rapture. 
My  ipirit  all  a  cry. 

The  red  leaves  (all  upon  it 
The  moon  and  mist  and  rain 
But  not  the  magic  footfall 
i  hat  made  its  meaning  plain. 


NIKE. 

WHAT  do  men  give  thanks  for? 
I  K've  thanks  for  one. 
Lovelier  than  morning 
Dearer  than  the  sun. 

S..I ;-.  <»  head  the  victors 
Must     ive  praised  and  known, 
•  it  ■  tii.it  breast  and  bearing, 
.^  Ike's  very  own 

As  superb,  untrammeled, 
Kbythmed  and  poised  and  free 
AS  the  strong  pure  sea-wind 
Walking  on  the  sea; 
33 


Such  a  hand  as  Beauty 
Uses  with  full  heart, 
Seeking  for  her  freedom 
In  new  shapes  of  art ; 


M 


Soft  as  rain  in  April, 
Quiet  as  the  days 
Of  the  purple  asters 
And  the  autumn  haze ; 


With  a  soul  more  subtle 
Than  the  light  of  stars, 
Frailer  than  a  moth's  wing 
To  the  touch  that  mars  ; 


f 


Wise  with  all  the  silence 
Of  the  waiting  hills, 
When  the  gracious  twilight 
Wakes  in  them  and  thrills; 


With  a  voice  more  tender 
Than  the  early  moon 
Hears  among  the  thrushes 
In  the  woods  of  June ; 


Delicate  as  grasses 
When  they  lift  and  stir  — 
One  sweet  lyric  woman  — 
I  give  thanks  for  her. 


34 


BY  STl  .  WATERS,  "he  leadeth  he  be- 
side THE  STILL  waters;  HE  RESTORETH  MY 
SOUL." 

MY  tent  stands  in  a  garden 
Of  aster  and  goldenrod, 
Tilled  by  the  rain  and  the  sunshine, 
And  sown  by  the  hand  of  God,  — 
An  old  New  England  pasture 
Abandoned  to  peace  and  time. 
And  by  the  magic  of  beauty 
Reclaimed  to  the  sublime. 

About  it  are  golden  woodlands 

Of  tulip  and  hickory ; 

On  the  open  ridge  behind  it 

You  may  mount  to  a  glimpse  of  sea,  — 

The  far-oS,  blue,  Homeric 

Rim  of  the  world's  great  shield, 

A  border  of  boundless  glamor 

For  the  soul's  familiar  field. 


I 


In  purple  and  gray-wrought  lichen 
The  boulders  lie  in  the  sun ; 
Along  its  grassy  footpath 
The  white-tailed  rabbits  run. 
The  crickets  work  and  chirrup 
Through  the  still  afternoon ; 
And  the  owl  calls  from  the  hillside 
Under  the  frosty  moon. 

The  odorous  wild  grape  clambers 
Over  the  tumbling  wall. 
And  throigh  the  autumnal  quiet 
The  chestnuts  open  and  fall. 
Sharing  time's  freshness  and  fragrance, 
35 


'A 


'atgrt. 


Here  mW^'V^reat  soul, 

To  »;S     '  "P'"'  ""y  "pen 
To  wisdom  serene  and  wfole. 

Shall  we  not  grow  with  the  asters - 
Never  reluctant  nor  sad, 
No  counting  the  cost  of  beinp- 
Lmngtodareandbeglad?    *^' 
Shall  we  not  lift  with  tie  crickets 
A  chorus  of  ready  cheer, 

Su^tlSanTu^t:!::^-'--- 
Have  I  as  brave  a  spirit, 

Th«      P*^**"'  Of  passing  days 

F^ll,     ?.l\"'^  oracles  Nature 
Fills  with  her  holy  breath, 

S^'he'nglory'ofcolo;, 
Transcending  the  shadow  of  death. 

Here  in  the  sifted  sunlight 
A  spmt  seems  to  brood 

In  .^L^^m"->'  ^^  "-""h  of  beina 
In  tranquil,  instinctive  mood  •     ^ 

36 


And  the  heart,  filled  full  of  gladness 
Such  as  the  wise  earth  knowsr 
Wells  w,th  a  full  thanksgiving 
For  the  gifts  that  life  beftows : 

Th^  I,    sp'enf  i4  gospel  of  ?olor, 
1  he  rapt  revelations  of  sound; 
tor  the  morning-blue  above  us 

For  the  chickadee's  call  to  valo^ 
Bidding  the  faint-heart  turn  ; 

For  fire  and  running  water, 
Snowfall  and  summer  rain  • 
For  sunsets  and  quiet  meadows. 
The  fruit  and  the  standing  grain- 
For  the  solemn  hour  of  mlonrise' 
Over  the  crest  of  trees, 
When  the  mellow  lights  are  kindled 
In  the  lamps  of  the  centuries ; 

Le°d  hv°fh'  '^^°  ''■'■°"«''"  aforetime, 
Led  by  the  mystic  strain 

And  [w°''.l''^'*'Ser  freedom, 
And  1  ve  for  the  greater  gain  • 
For  plenty  and  peace  anl  playtime. 
The  homely  goods  of  earth,    ^        ' 
And  for  rare  immaterial  treasures 
Accounted  of  little  worth ; 

Wher'.' wi'^"''''^  ='r<^  friendship. 
Where  beneficent  truth  is  supreme  — 
Those  everlasting  cities         '^         ' 
Built  on  the  hills  of  dream  ; 
37 


By  SIM 

iy<ilm. 


t 


% 


'altri. 


For  all  things  growing  and  goodly 
That  foster  thfi  life,  and  brted 
The  immortal  flower  of  wisdom 
Out  of  the  mortal  seed. 

But  most  of  all  for  the  spirit 
That  cannot  rest  nor  bide 
In  stale  and  sterile  convenience. 
Nor  safely  proven  and  tried. 
But  still  inspired  and  driven, 
Must  seek  what  better  may  be. 
And  up  from  the  loveliest  garden 
Must  climb  for  a  glimpse  of  sea. 


TE  DEUM. 

^dor'Cl^i&To°f{j^'''^"^"""""''''*-''''P'- 

^ilfj  '"fi'l'  \*''  '?^'^''«^  "*  breathless  moment 
and  gold  the  hush  of  its  glory  now,  ' 

to  wf?n3  IJ'^t''"."^'  'han  Titian's,  the  heart 
to  lift  and  the  head  to  bow. 

I  should  be  lord  of  a  world  of  rapture,  master  of 
of  magic  and  gladness,  too,  _  ^       '  °' 

^s^^e^sca^pi:x-;[^^^^^^^^^^^ 

^°,?,V.i?'^""'?8  ?V'""f''  boundless  beauty  to 
exalt  the  spirit  with  all  her  powers 
•      38 


'^i3i."'''"">;'-  "'=''  *"''  8"°''i"S  wi'h  blended 
marvels,  vermilion  and  dun  «:"ucu 

Hung  out  for  the  pageant  of  time  that  passes  alone 
an  avenue  of  the  sun  I  ^ 

The  crown  of  the  ash  is  tinged  with  purple  the 

hickory  leaves  are  Etruscan  gold         ^   ' 
^KoVl'?i^'^^,';'^d^^"-''--"g-st  the 

"■  mark'',yc''h^s"ra°s"  "'"*''  '*^"'^' ''  "y^''  »»■ 
In  festal  pomp  and  victorious  pride,  when  the 
vision  ofspring  is  brought  to  pass. 

Down  from  the  line  of  the  shore's  deep  shadows 
another  and  softer  picture  lies,        ^  ^na^ows 

^VdJeaTof  ?a«lilf  1'" '"""""-  ^''-"^  ""bor 

'?et:  ai;^  fefer''''-'^^.  -"""S  the 
With  the  spell  of  an  empty  fairy  world,  where 
smew  and  sap  are  left  behind. 

So  men  dream  of  a  far-off  heaven  of  power  and 
knowledge  and  endless  joy,  ^ 

Ps  divlSe'  erpToy"''  '"'  '""'°"'  '""  '°  «" 

""honla^d  felr!*""°'"  ™='«*'  "^o™  °'  '=«'»»«= 
Of  the  very  happiness  life  engenders  and  earth 
provides  —  our  pri-/ilege  herl. 
39 


r 


T.Dnm.  Dare  we  dispel  a  single  transport,  neglect  the 

worth  that  is  here  and  now, 
Yet  dream  of  enjoying  its  shadowy  semblance  in 

the  by-and-by  somewhere,  someiiow  ? 
I  heard  the  wind  on  the  hillside  whisper,  "  They  ill 

prepare  for  a  journey  hence 
Who  waste  the  senses  and  starve  the  spirit  in  a 

world  all  made  for  spirit  and  sense. 

"  Is  the  full  stream  fed  from  a  stifled  source,  or 

the  ripe  fruit  filled  from  a  blighted  flower  ? 
Are  not  the  brook  and  the  blossom  greatened 

through  many  a  busy  beatified  hour  ? 
Not  in  the  shadow  but  in  the  substance,  plastic 

and  potent  at  our  command, 
Are  all  the  wisdom  and  gladness  of  heart;  this  is 

the  kingdom  of  heaven  at  hand." 

So  I  will  pass  through  the  lovely  world,  and  par- 
take of  beauty  to  feed  my  soul. 

With  earth  my  domain  and  growth  my  portion, 
how  should  I  sue  for  a  further  dole  ? 

In  the  lift  I  feel  of  immortal  rapture,  in  the  flying 
glimpse  I  gain  of  truth. 

Released  is  the  passion  that  sought  perfection, 
assauged  the  ardor  of  dreamful  youth. 

The  patience  of  time  shall  teach  me  courage,  the 

strength  of  the  sun  shall  lend  me  poise. 
1  would  give  thanks  for  the  autumn  glory,  for  the 

teaching  of  earth  and  all  her  joys. 
Her  fine  fruition  shall  well  suffice  me ;  the  air 

shall  stir  in  my  veins  like  wine ; 
While  the  moment  waits  and  the  wonder  deepens, 

my  life  shall  merge  with  the  life  divine. 
40 


ON  BURIAL  HILL. 

WHILE  the  slow-filtered  sorcery 
Of  Indian  summer  lay 
Upon  the  golden-shadowed  streets 
Of  Concord  yesterday, 
We  climbed  the  rocky  path  that  led 
Through  hallowed  air  all  still, 
Where  Concord  men  first  laid  their  dead 
To  rest  on  Burial  Hill. 

Her  sages  and  her  poets  lie 
In  Sleepy  Hollow  ground ; 
But  here,  unviJted,  apart, 

Her  good  men  unrenowned, 

Those  vanished  folic  who  greatly  did, 
Because  they  greatly  planned. 
Here  in  the  slanting  mellow  sun 
Their  sinking  headstones  stand. 

Close  to  the  stone-walled  village  street 

It  rises  in  deep  shade,  — 

This  cherished  place  about  whose  base 

Their  first  homesteads  were  made. 

Here  the  first  smoke  rose  from  the  hearth 

ro  cheer  them,  great  of  soul; 

And  here  for  all  the  world  to  see 

They  set  their  Liberty  Pole. 

O  little,  blessed,  lonely  plot 
Of  our  ancestral  earth, 
What  dreams  are  here  as  we  draw  near 
The  dust  that  gave  us  birth  ! 
Out  of  the  ancient  mighty  dark 
These  Pilgrims  not  in  vain 
Proclaimed  the  good  they  saw,  then  turned 
ro  dust  and  dreams  again. 
41 


I 


; 


Hiu         °  "*'*'■  "y  *''*''■  dream*  are  dead, 
Since  West  and  South  and  North 
They  sent  their  breed  to  prove  their  creed 
In  verity  and  worth. 
Across  the  conquered  leagues  that  lie 
Beneath  their  dauntless  will, 
From  tent  and  shack  the  trails  run  back 
To  the  foot  of  Burial  Hill. 

Slowly  w  J  mount  the  wooded  crest, 

And  there  in  golden  gloom 

Stands  simple,  square,  and  unadorned. 

Our  grandsire's  altar  tomb. 

Upon  its  dark  gray  slated  top 

The  long  inscription  reads. 

In  stately  phrase  his  townsmen's  praise 

Of  his  deserts  and  deeds. 

Their  "  pastor  of  the  Church  of  Christ," 

They  wish  the  world  to  feel 

The  "  luster  "  of  his  ministry. 

His  "  meekness  "  and  his  "  zeal." 

I  doubt  not  he  deserved  it  all. 

And  not  a  word  of  ill; 

For  they  were  just,  these  iien  whose  dust 

Lies  here  on  Burial  Hill. 

Perhaps  we  wear  the  very  guise 
And  features  that  he  wore, 
And  with  the  look  of  his  own  eyes 
Behold  his  world  once  more. 
Would  that  his  spirit  too  might  live, 
While  lives  his  goodly  name, 
To  move  among  the  sons  of  men, 
"A  minister  of  flame." 
42 


So  might  his  magic  gift  of  wordi, 
Not  wholly  paucd  away, 
Survive  to  be  a  sorcery 
In  all  men's  hearts  to-day, 
To  plead  no  less  for  loveliness 
Than  truth  and  goodness  still. 
God  rest  you,  sir,  his  minister, 
Asleep  on  Burial  Hill! 


OnBurM 

urn. 


THE  WISE   MEN   FROM  THE   EAST. 

(A  LITTLE  boy's  CHRISTMAS  LESSON) 
"   Ti/^HYwtre  the  Wise  Men  three, 

"     tnsteadof  five  or  seven  t" 
They  bad  to  match,  you  see, 
The  archangels  in  Heaven. 

God  sent  them,  sure  and  swift. 
By  his  mysterious  presage. 
To  bear  the  threefold  gift 
And  uke  the  threefold  message. 

Thus  in  their  hands  were  seen 
The  gold  of  purest  Beauty, 
The  myrrh  of  Truth  all-clean. 
The  frankincense  of  Duty. 


And  thus  they  bore  away 
The  loving  heart's  great  treasure. 
And  knowledge  clear  as  day. 
To  be  our  life's  new  measure. 
43 


u 


1 .1 


I  i 


i 


Arii/rZ      They  went  b»ck  to  the  Eait 
lit  Sit.       To  ipread  the  news  of  gladnesi. 
There  one  became  a  prieit 
Of  the  new  word  to  sadnes-s  j 

And  one  a  workman,  skilled 
Beyond  the  old  earth's  fashion: 
And  one  a  scholar,  filled 
With  learning's  endless  passion. 

God  sent  them  for  a  sign 
He  would  not  change  nor  alter 
His  good  and  fair  design, 
However  man  may  falter. 

He  meant  that,  as  He  chose 
His  perfect  plan  and  willed  it, 
They  stood  in  place  of  those 
Who  elsewhere  had  fulfilled  it; 

Whoso  would  mark  and  reach 
The  height  of  man's  election, 
Must  stifl  achieve  and  teach 
The  tnplicate  perfection. 

For  since  the  world  was  made, 
One  thing  was  needed  ever, 
To  keep  man  undismayed 
Through  failure  and  endeavor  — 

A  faultless  trinity 
Of  body,  mind,  and  spirit. 
And  each  with  its  own  three 
Strong  angels  to  be  near  it ; 
44 


Strength  to  arise  and  go 
Wherever  dawn  li  breaking, 
Poise  like  the  tides  that  flow, 
Instinct  for  beauty-making; 

Imagination  bold 
To  cross  the  mystic  border, 
Reason  to  seek  and  hold, 
Judgment  for  law  and  order ; 

i°Vu^l  ■"?■"»  »"  "''»8»  well. 
>  aith  that  is  al|.availln| 

Each  terror  to  dispel. 

And  Love,  ah,  Love  unfailing. 

These  are  the  flaming  Nine 
Who  walk  the  world  unsleeping, 
S.nt  forth  by  the  Divine 
With  manhood  in  their  keeping. 

These  are  the  seraphs  strone 
His  miRhty  soul  had  need  of, 
When  He  would  right  the  wrone 
And  sorrow  He  took  heed  of. 

And  that,  I  think,  is  why 
The  Wise  Men  knelt  before  Him 
And  put  their  kingdoms  by 
To  serve  Him  and  adore  Him; 

So  that  our  Lord,  unknown, 
Should  not  be  unattended. 
When  He  was  here  alone 
And  poor  and  unbefriended  ; 
45 


M«n/r»m 
l»t  ill. 


SijK:  Tn\*^.'""  "="•«''«  hw.  thr« 

i»ttM.    (Rather  than  five  or  Hven) 
To  stand  in  their  degree, 
Like  archangeli  In  Heaven. 


•1 


A  WATER  COLOR. 

THERE  -S  a  picture  In  my  room 
Ughteni  many  an  hour  of  gloom,  ■ 

Cheer*  me  under  fortune's  frown 
And  the  drudgery  of  town. 

Many  and  many  a  winter  day 

w    n  my  soul  sees  all  thing*  gray, 

Here  Is  vurilable  June, 

Heart's  content  and  spirits  boon. 

It  is  scarce  a  hand-breadth  wide, 
Not  a  span  from  side  to  side. 

Yet  It  Is  an  open  door 
Loolcing  bacic  to  joy  once  more, 

Where  the  level  marshes  lie, 
A  quiet  journey  of  the  eye. 

And  the  unsubstantial  blue 
Makes  the  fine  Illusion  true. 

So  I  forth  and  travel  there 
In  the  blessed  light  and  air, 
46 


*  rom  the  dim  and  ro»y  ihore, 

Of'l!l.*'LM''"^-"*?'  »•«*  draft 
0«  the  old  sea'i  mighty  craft. 

I  am  ,,tandln<r  on  the  dunes, 

By  some  charm  that  must  b^  june'i. 

When  the  maeic  of  her  hand 
Lays  a  aea-ipdl  on  the  land. 

On'li!!?';,?'''  '"'^hantment  falls 
On  the  blue-gray  orchard  walla 

And  the  purple  high-top  boles, 
While  the  orange  orioles 

Flame  and  whistle  through  the  green 
Of  that  paradisal  scene.  ^ 

Strolling  idly  for  an  hour 
Where  the  eider  is  in  flower, 

I  can  hear  the  bob-white  call 
Down  beyond  the  pasture  wall. 

Musing  in  the  scented  heat, 
Where  the  bayberry  is  sweet, 
47 


CMtr. 


i 


A  Waltr 
Cohr. 


% 


I  can  see  the  shadows  run 
Up  the  cliff-side  in  the  sun. 

Or  I  cross  the  bridge  and  reach 
The  mossers'  houses  on  the  beach, 

Where  the  bathers  on  the  sand 
Lie  sea-freshened  and  sun-tanned. 

Thus  I  pass  the  gates  of  time 
And  the  boundaries  of  clime, 

Chan|p  the  ugly  man-made  street 
For  God's  country  green  and  sweet. 

Fag  of  body,  irk  of  mind, 
In  a  moment  left  behind. 

Once  more  I  possess  my  soul 
With  the  poise  and  self-control 

Beauty  eives  the  free  of  heart 
Through  the  sorcery  of  irt. 


EL  DORADO. 

THIS  is  the  story 
Of  Santo  Domingo, 
The  first  established 
Permanent  city 
Built  in  the  New  World. 
48 


Miguel  Dias, 

A  Spanish  sailor 

In  the  fleet  of  Columbus. 

Fought  with  a  captain, 

Wounded  him,  then  in  fear 

fled  from  his  punishment. 

Ranging  the  wilds,  he  came 
On  a  secluded 
Indian  village 
Of  the  peace-loving 
Comely  Caguisas. 
There  he  found  shelter. 
Food,  fire,  and  hiding,  — 
Welcome  unstinted. 

Over  this  •.•  'be  ruled  — 

No  cunning  chieftain 

Grown  gray  in  world-cr  ft, 

But  a  young  soft-eyed 

Girl,  tender-hearted, 

Lovinjr,  and  regal 

Only  in  beauty. 

With  no  suspicion 

Of  the  perfidious 

Merciless  gold-lust 
Of  the  white  sea-wolves,— 
•Roving,  rapacious. 
Conquerors,  destroyers. 
Strongly  the  stranger 
Wooed  with  his  foreign 
Manners,  his  Latin 
Fervor  and  graces  ; 
Beat  down  her  gentle 
Unreserved  strangeness ; 
49 


SlD^aJ^ 


II 


¥i 


JHD.r^.    Made  himself  consort 
Of  a  young  queen,  all 
Loveliness,  ardor. 
And  generous  devotion. 
Her  world  she  gave  him, 
Nothing  denied  him. 
All,  all  lor  love's  sake 
Poured  out  before  him,— 
Lived  but  to  pleasure 
And  worship  her  lover. 

Such  is  the  way 

Of  free-hearted  women. 

Radiant  beings 

Who  carry  God's  secret; 

All  their  seraphic 

Unworldly  wisdom 

Spent  without  fearine 

Or  calculation 

For  the  enrichment 

Of— whom,  what,  and  wherefore? 

Ask  why  the  sun  shines 
And  IS  not  measured. 
Ask  why  the  rain  falls 
Aeon  by  aeon. 
Ask  why  the  wind  comes 
Making  the  strong  trees 
Blossom  in  springtime. 
Forever  unwearied ! 
Whoever  earned  these  gifts. 
Air,  sun,  and  water? 
Whoever  earned  his  share 
In  that  unfathomed 
Full  benediction, 
50 


Passing  the  old  earth's 
Cunningest  knowledge, 
Greater  than  all 
The  ambition  of  ages, 
Light  as  a  thistle-seed, 
Strong  as  a  tide-run, 
Vast  and  mysterious 
As  the  night  sky,  — 
The  love  of  woman  ? 

Not  long  did  Miguel 
Dias  abide  content 
With  his  good  fortune. 
Back  to  his  voyaging 
Turned  his  desire, 
Restless  once  more  to  rove 
With  boon  companions. 
Filled  with  the  covetous 
Thirst  for  adventure,  — 
The  white  man's  folly. 

T;.en  poor  Zamcaca, 
In  consternation 
Lest  she  lack  merit 
Worthy  to  tether 
His  wayward  fancy, 
Knowing  no  way  but  love. 
Guileless,  and  sedulous 
Only  to  gladden. 
Quick  and  sweet-souled 
As  another  madonna. 
Gave  him  the  secret 
Of  her  realm's  treasure,  — 
Raw  gold  unweighed, 
Stored  wealth  unimagined  • 
51 


Ei  Dorado. 


SlOfrmd,. 


Decked  him  with  trappines 
Of  that  vellow  peril;        * 
And  bade  him  go 
Bring  his  comrades  to  settle 
In  her  dominion. 

Not  long  the  Spaniards 
Stood  on  that  bidding. 
Cold  was  their  madness. 
Their  Siren  and  Pandar 
Trooping  they  followed 
Their  friend  the  explorer, 
Greed-fevered  ravagers 
Of  all  things  gotidly, 
Hot-foot  to  plunder 
The  land  of  his  love-dream. 
They  swooped  on  that  country. 
Founded  their  city, 
Made  Miguel  Dias 
Its  first  Alcalde,  — 
Flattered  and  fooled  him 
Loud  in  false  praises 
For  the  great  wealth  he  had 
Uy  his  love's  bounty. 

Then  the  old  story. 
Older  than  Adam,— 
Treachery,  rapine. 
Ingratitude,  bloodshed, 
Wrought  by  the  strong  man 
On  unsuspecting 
And  gentler  brothers. 
The  rabid  Spaniar !. 
Christian  and  rut.iless 
(Like  any  modem 


Magnate  of  Mammon), 
Harried  that  fearless, 
Light-hearted,  trustful  folk 
Under  his  booted  heel. 
Tears  (ah,  a  woman's  tears,— 
The  grief  of  angels,  — ) 
Fell  from  Zamcaca, 
Sorrowing,  hopeless, 
Alone,  for  her  people. 

Sick  from  injustice. 

Distraught,  and  disheartened. 

Tortured  by  sight  and  sound 

Of  wrong  and  ruin. 

When  the  kind,  silent, 

Tropical  moonlight. 

Lay  on  the  city, 

In  the  dead  hour 

When  the  soul  trembles 

Within  the  portals 
Of  its  own  province. 
While  far  away  seem 
All  deeds  of  daytime, 
5>he  rose  and  wondered- 
Gazed  on  the  sleeping   ' 
Face  of  her  loved  one. 
Alien  and  cruel ; 
Kissed  her  strange  children. 
Longingly  laying  a  hand 
In  farewell  on  each. 
Crept  to  the  door,  and  fled 
Back  to  the  forest. 


aiDtndc. 


Only  the  deep  heart 
Of  the  World-mother, 
i3 


"^•~*- Brooding  below  the  itomn 
Of  human  madness, 
Can  know  what  desolate 
Anguish  possessed  her. 

Only  the  far  mind 
Of  the  World-father, 
Seeing  the  mystic 
End  and  beginning, 
Knows  why  the  pageant 
Is  so  betattered 
With  mortal  sorrow. 


A   PAINTER'S   HOLIDAY. 

WE  painters  sometimes  strangely  keep 
These  holidays.    When  life  runs  deep 
And  broad  and  strong,  it  comes  to  make 
Its  own  bright-colored  almanack. 
Impulse  and  incident  divine 
Must  find  their  way  through  tone  and  line; 
The  throb  of  color  and  the  dream 
Of  beauty,  giving  art  its  theme 
From  dear  life's  daily  miracle, 
Illume  the  artist's  life  as  well. 

A  bird-note,  or  a  turning  leaf, 
The  first  white  fall  of  snow,  a  brief 
Wild  song  from  the  Anthology, 
A  smile,  or  a  girl's  kindling  eye,  — 
And  there  is  worth  enough  for  him 
To  make  the  page  of  history  dim. 
Who  knows  upon  what  day  may  come 
The  touch  of  that  delirium 
54 


Which  lifts  plain  life  to  the  divine, 
And  teaches  hand  th«  magic  line 
No  cunnine  rule  could  ever  reach, 
Where  Soul's  necessities  find  speech  ? 
None  knows  how  rapture  may  arrive 
To  be  our  helper,  and  survive 
Through  our  essay  to  help  in  turn 
All  starving  eager  souls  who  yearn 
Lightward  discouraged  and  distraught. 
Ah,  once  art's  ^leam  of  glory  caught 
And  treasured  m  the  heart,  how  then 
We  walk  enchanted  among  men, 
And  with  the  elder  gods  confer  I 
So  art  is  hope's  interpreter. 
And  with  devotion  must  conspire 
To  fan  the  eternal  altar  fire. 
Wherefore  you  find  me  here  to-day. 
Not  idling  the  good  hours  away, 
But  picturing  a  magic  hour 
With  its  replenishment  of  power. 

Conceive  a  bleak  December  day, 
The  streets  all  mire,  the  sky  all  gray. 
And  a  poor  painter  trudging  home 
Disconsolate,  when  what  should  come 
Across  his  vision,  but  a  line 
On  a  bold-lettered  play-house  sign, 
A  Persian  Sun  Danct. 

In  he  turns. 
A  step,  and  there  the  desert  bums 
Purple  and  splendid ;  molten  gold 
The  streamers  of  the  dawn  unfold. 
Amber  and  amethyst  uphurled 
Above  the  far  rim  of  the  world ; 
The  long-held  sound  of  temple  bells 
Over  the  hot  sand  steals  and  swells ; 
Si 


A  Pminter't 


HM^'^  laiy  tom-tom  throbs  and  dronei 
HMiav    j„  barbarous  maddening  monotones  ; 
While  sandal  incense  blue  and  keen 
Hangs  in  the  air.     And  then  the  scene 
Wakes,  and  out  step,  by  rhythm  released, 
The  sorcery  of  all  the  East, 
In  rose  and  saffron  gossamer, — 
A  young  light-hearted  worshipper 
Who  dances  up  the  sun.    She  moves 
Like  waking  woodland  flower  that  loves 
To  greet  the  day.    Her  lithe  brown  curve 
Is  lilce  a  sapling's  sway  and  swerve 
Before  the  spring  wind.     Her  dark  hair 
Framing  a  face  vivid  and  rare, 
Curled  to  her  throat  and  then  flew  wild, 
Like  shadows  round  a  radiant  child. 
The  sunlight  from  her  cymbals  played 
About  her  dancing  knots,  and  made 
A  world  of  rose-lit  ec  tasy, 
Prophetic  of  the  day  to  be. 

Such  mystic  beauty  might  have  shone 

In  Sardis  or  in  Babylon, 

To  brine  a  Satrap  to  his  doom 

Or  touch  some  lad  with  glory's  bloom. 

And  now  it  wrought  for  me,  with  sheer 

Enchantment  of  the  dying  year. 

Its  irresistible  reprieve 

From  joylessness  on  New  Year's  Eve. 


S6 


MIRAGE. 

H^5F  hanes  at  last,  you  see,  my  row 
Of  sketches,  —  all  1  have  to  show 
Of  one  enchanted  summer  spent 
In  sweet  laborious  content, 
At  little  'Sconset  by  the  moors. 
With  the  sea  thundering  by  its  doors, 
Ji?.?^*"/  streets,  and  gardens  gay 
With  hollyhocks  and  salvia. 

And  here  upon  the  easel  yet. 

With  the  last  brush  of  paint  still  wet, 

(Showing  how  inspiration  toils), 

Is  one  where  the  white  surf-line  boils 

Along  the  sand,  and  the  whole  sea 

Lifts  to  the  skyline,  just  to  be 

The  wondrous  background  from  whose  verse 

Of  blue  on  blue  there  should  emerge 

This  miracle. 

One  day  of  days 
I  strolled  the  silent  path  that  strays 
Between  the  moorlands  and  the  beach 
From  Siasconset,  till  you  reach 
Tom  Nevers  Head,  the  lone  last  land 
That  fronts  the  ocean,  lone  and  grand 
As  when  the  Lord  first  bade  it  be 
For  a  surprise  and  mystery, 
A  sailless  sea,  a  cloudless  sky, 
The  level  lonely  moors,  and  I 
The  only  soul  in  all  that  vast 
Of  color  made  intense  to  last ! 
The  small  white  sea-birds  piping  near; 
The  great  soft  moor-winds;  and  the  dear 
Bright  sun  that  pales  each  crest  to  jade 
Where  gulls  glint  fishing  unafraid. 
.57 


ttirmp.     Here  man  the  godlike  might  have  gone 

With  his  deep  thought,  on  that  wild  dawn 
When  the  first  sun  came  from  the  sea, 
Glow'nc  and  kindling  the  world  to  be. 
While  time  began  and  joy  had  birth, — 
No  wilder  sweeter  spot  on  earth  I 


As  I  sat  there  and  mused  (the  way 
We  painters  waste  our  time,  you  sav  I) 
On  tne  sheer  loneliness  and  strength 
Whence  life  must  spring,  there  came  at  length 
Conviction  of  the  helplessness 
Of  earth  alone  to  ban  or  bless, 
I  saw  the  huee  unhuman  sea; 
I  heard  the  drear  monotony 
Of  the  waves  beating  on  the  shore 
With  heedless,  futile  strife  and  roar. 
Without  a  meaning  or  an  aim. 
And  then  a  revelation  came. 
In  subtle,  sudden,  lovely  guise, 
Like  one  of  those  soft  mysteries 
Of  Indian  jugglers,  who  evoke 
A  flower  for  you  out  of  smoke. 
I  knew  sheer  beauty  without  soul 
Could  never  be  perfection's  zoal, 
Nor  satisfy  the  seeking  mind 
With  all  it  longs  for  and  must  find 
One  day.     The  lovely  things  that  haunt 
Our  senses  with  an  aching  want. 
And  move  our  souls,  are  like  the  fair 
Lost  garments  of  a  soul  somewhere. 
Nature  is  naught,  if  not  the  veil 
Of  some  great  good  that  must  prevail 
And  break  in  joy,  as  woods  of  spring 
Break  into  song  and  blossoming. 
S8 


Cut  what  makct  that  ereat  eoodneu  >urt 

Within  ourselves  ?    When  leaps  the  heart 

With  gladness,  only  then  we  know 

Why  lovely  Nature  travails  so,  — 

Why  art  must  persevere  and  pray 

In  her  incomparable  way. 

In  all  the  world  the  only  worth 

Is  human  happiness;  its  dearth 

The  darkest  ill.     Let  joyance  be. 

And  there  is  God's  sufficiency,  — 

Such  joy  as  only  can  abound 

Where  the  heart's  comrade  has  been  found. 

That  was  my  thought.     And  then  the  sea 

Broke  in  upon  my  revery 

With  clamorous  beauty,  —  the  superb 

Eternal  noun  that  takes  no  verb 

But  love.     The  heaven  of  dove-like  blue 

Bent  o'er  the  azure,  round  and  true 

As  magic  sphere  of  crystal  glass. 

Where  faitn  sees  plain  the  paeeant  pass 

Of  things  unseen.     So  I  beheld 

The  sheer  sky-arches  domed  and  belled, 

As  if  the  sea  were  the  very  floor 

Of  heaven  where  walked  the  gods  of  yore 

In  Plato's  imaeery,  and  I 

Uplifted  saw  their  pomps  go  by. 

The  House  of  space  and  time  grew  tense 
As  if  with  rapture's  imminence. 
When  truth  should  be  at  last  made  clear, 
And  the  ;;reat  worth  of  life  appear ; 
While  I,  a  worshipper  at  the  shrine, 
For  very  longing  grew  divine. 
Borne  upward  on  earth's  ecstasy. 
And  welcomed  by  the  boundless  sky. 
59 


Mimgt. 


I 


A  mighty  preiclcnce  itemed  to  brood 
Over  that  tenuoui  solitude 
Yearning  for  form,  till  it  became 
Vivid  ai  dream  and  live  as  flame, 
Throuch  magic  art  could  never  match, 
The  vAion  I  nave  tried  to  catch, — 
All  earth's  delight  and  meaning  grown 
A  lyric  presence  loved  and  known. 


How  otherwise  could  time  evolve 
Young  c'lrage,  or  the  high  resolve, 
Or  gla(.    .>s  to  assuage  and  bless 
The  sc     s  austere  great  loneliness. 
Than  L_,  providing  tier  somehow 
With  sympathy  of  hand  and  brow. 
And  bidding  ner  at  last  go  free, 
Companioned  through  eternity  ? 


So  there  appeared  before  my  eyes. 
In  a  beloved  familiar  guise, 
A  vivid  questing  human  face 
In  profile,  scanning  heaven  for  grace. 
Up-gazing  there  against  the  blue 
With  eyes  that  heaven  itself  shone  through ; 
The  lips  soft-parted,  hUf  in  prayer. 
Half  confident  of  kindness  there; 
A  brow  like  Plato's  made  for  dream 
In  some  immortal  Academe, 
And  tender  as  a  happy  girl's ; 
A  full  dark  head  of  clustered  curls 
Round  as  an  emperor's,  where  meet 
Repose  and  ardor,  strong  and  sweet, 
Distilling  from  a  mind  unmarred 
The  glory  of  her  rapt  regard. 
60 


So  eager  Mary  might  have  itood, 
In  love'i  adoring  attitude, 
i^nd  loolicd  into  the  angel'a  eyea 
With  faith  and  fearleiineai,  ail  wiae 
In  aoul's  unfaltering  innocence, 
Sure  in  her  woman^  iupersenic 
Of  thingi  only  the  humWe  Icnow. 
My  vision  looka  forever  so. 

In  other  years  when  men  shall  say, 
..ru''*^*??  ""=  P»in»ef'i  meaninp   unv? 
Why  all  this  vast  of  lea  and  spa  e        ' 
Just  to  enframe  a  woman's  face  ?' 
Here  is  the  pertinent  reply, 
"  What  better  use  for  earth  and  sky  ? ' 

The  great  archangel  passed  that  way 
Illummg  life  with  mystic  ray 
Not  Lippo's  self  nor  Raphael 
Had  lovelier  realer  things  to  tell 
Than  I,  beholding  far  away 
How  all  the  melting  rose  and  gray 
Upon  the  purple  sea-line  leaned 
About  that  head  that  intervened. 

How  real  was  she  ?    Ah,  my  friend, 
In  art  the  fact  and  fancy  blend 
Past  telling.     All  the  painter's  task 
Is  with  the  glonr.     Need  we  ask 
The  tulips  breaking  through  the  mould 
To  their  untarnished  age  of  gold. 
Whence  their  ideaLs  were  derived 
That  have  so  gloriously  survived  ? 
Flowers  and  painters  both  must  give 
The  hint  they  have  received,  to  live,  — 
6i 


MSrft. 


Mh-tt- 


Spend  without  stint  the  joy  and  power 
That  lurk  in  each  propitious  hour, — 
Yet  leave  the  why  untoid  —  God's  way. 

My  sketch  is  all  I  have  to  say. 


THE  WINGED   VICTORY. 

THOU  dear  and  most  high  Victory, 
Whose  hoane  is  the  unvanquislied  sea. 
Whose  fluttering  wind-blown  garments  keep 
The  very  freshness,  fold,  and  sweep 
They  wore  upon  the  galley's  prow, 
By  what  unwonted  favor  now 
Hast  thou  alighted  in  this  place, 
Thou  Victory  of  Samothrace  ? 

O  thou  to  whom  in  countless  lands 
With  eager  liearts  and  striving  hands 
Strong  men  in  their  last  needliave  prayed. 
Greatly  desiring,  undismayed. 
And  thou  hast  been  across  the  fight 
Their  consolation  and  their  might, 
Withhold  not  now  one  dearer  gract; 
Thou  Victory  of  Samothrace  ! 

Behold,  we  too  must  cry  to  thee. 
Who  wage  our  strife  with  Destiny, 
And  give  for  Beauty  and  for  Truth 
Our  love,  our  valor  and  our  youth. 
Are  there  no  honors  for  these  things 
To  match  the  pageantries  of  kings  ? 
Are  we  more  laggard  in  the  race 
Than  those  who  tell  at  Samothrace? 
62 


/ 


Not  only  for  the  bow  and  sword, 
O  Victory,  be  thy  reward ! 
The  hands  that  work  with  paint  and  clay 
In  Beauty's  service,  shall  not  they 
Also  with  mighty  faith  prevail  ? 
Let  hope  not  die,  nor  courage  fail. 
But  joy  come  with  thee  pace  for  pace. 
As  once  long  since  in  Samothrace. 

Grant  us  the  skill  to  shape  the  form 
And  spread  the  color  living-warm, 
(As  thev  who  wrought  aforetime  did), 
Where  love  and  wisdom  shall  lie  hid. 
In  fair  impassioned  types,  to  sway 
The  cohorts  of  the  world  to-day. 
In  Truth's  eternal  cause,  and  trace 
Thy  glory  down  from  Samothrace. 

With  all  the  ease  and  splendid  poise 
Of  one  who  triumphs  without  noise, 
Wilt  thou  not  teach  us  to  attain 
Thy  sense  of  power  without  strain. 
That  we  a  little  may  possess 
Our  souls  with  thy  sure  loveliness,  — 
That  calm  the  years  cannot  deface. 
Thou  Victory  of  Samothrace  ? 

Then  in  the  ancient  ceaseless  war 
With  infamy,  go  thou  before  ! 
Amid  the  shoutings  and  the  drums 
Let  it  be  learned  that  Beauty  comes, 
Man's  matchless  Paladin  to  be, 
Whose  rule  shall  make  his  spirit  free 
As  thine  from  all  things  mean  or  base. 
Thou  Victory  of  Samothrace. 
63 


Th, 

Vktory. 


I"'.l 


TRIUMPHALIS. 

S°^^.  ""thou  sad  again 
With  the  old  sadnSs? 
Thou  Shalt  be  glad  »«"„ 
When  April  sun  and  rain 

Mount, o  the  teeming'brain 
With  the  earth  madness 

When  from  the  mould  aeain 
Spurning  disaster,  """«»"•• 
^P""«  snoots  unfold  again 
Follow  thou  faster  ' 

g?'°J."'e  drear  domain 
Of  dark,  defeat,  and  pain 
Praising  the  Master.        ' 

Light  for  thy  guide  a^ai- 
AmpIeandsXdfd;^  "' 
Love  at  thy  side  again. 
All  doubting  endel; 

For  nothing  small  or  vain 
Michael  contended !) 

Thou  Shalt  take  heart  asain 

No  more  despairing;     ^*'"' 

Pla^  thy  great  part%ain 
Loving  and  caring.  ^      ' 

Hark,  how  the  gold  refrain 

Con7dt!te^r°-«»^'". 
a«tle  with  wrong  again, 
64 


Be  truth's  defender,— 
Of  the  immortal  train 
Born  to  attempt,  attain, 
Never  surrender ! 


Tritlm0i^■ 


^"\|NCHANTED   TRAVELLER. 

V  V  With  hearts  all  fear  above, 
For  we  ate  the  bread  of  friendship 
We  drank  the  wine  of  love. 

Through  many  a  wondrous  autumn, 
Through  many  a  magic  spring, 
We  hailed  the  scarlet  banners, 
We  heard  the  blue-bird  sing. 

We  looked  on  life  and  nature 
With  the  eager  eves  of  youth, 
And  all  we  asked  or  cared  for 
Was  beauty,  joy,  and  truth. 

We  found  no  other  wisdom 
We  learned  no  other  way, 
Than  the  gladness  of  the  morning, 
The  glory  of  the  day. 

??  a|'  our  earthly  treasure 
ohall  go  with  us,  my  dears. 
Aboard  the  Shadow  Liner, 
Across  the  sea  of  years. 


THE  STARRY  MID- 
AS I  MUSE  BSPO- 
ON  THE  ASHE8- 
AND    THE    EMBE- 

«UFE   HAS  NO  OT- 
AND     TIME     NO- 
THAN:  'I  FOR  Joy 
WHERE  THOU  Ft)R- 


■-.iJ 


KtrdHT  WHISPERS, 
O-JI^RB  THE  FIRE 
58-fl-OF  AMBITION 
E-4I-EB   OF   DESIRE, 

■HER  LOGIC, 
■^THER  CREED, 
-WILL  FOLLOW, 
-I.OVE  DOST  LEAD!" 


m<1f!^ 


miii 


